Golden

The VIP opening was scheduled to begin at 3:00 PM.

Yuni-ssi explained the later-than-expected opening time:

"Most of our gallery's main clients are big names in the fashion and entertainment industries. If we opened in the morning, no one would come. Most of those people don't start their day until around noon."

It was a reasonable explanation. Even though I had no idea who the most popular celebrities were these days and had never flipped through a fashion magazine — someone completely removed from trends and sensibility — I still had enough common sense to guess at the irregular lifestyles of people in those fields.

It puzzled me slightly, though, that a gallery dealing in fine art would draw its primary clientele from the fashion and entertainment worlds.

The two industries might overlap with each other, but their connection to fine art had never struck me as particularly deep. Perhaps the consumer base for art had diversified so much during the years I'd spent in that fishing village that galleries now ran on crowds like these.

From a traditional perspective, Yuni-ssi and Juhan-ssi looked more convincing as models or designers than as gallery staff explaining the power and resilience of brushstrokes or the imagination conjured by negative space in a traditional East Asian painting.

I had assumed they might dress more neatly — like typical curators — on a day dedicated to receiving VIP clients. That assumption was entirely wrong.

They were wearing even more piercings and accessories than the day before, their looks coordinated with makeup, appearing even more deliberately styled.

After moving all the freshly printed pamphlets from the printer into the office, I separated them into the batch for the main exhibition and the ones to be distributed today. While doing that, I asked about something that had been quietly nagging at me since yesterday.

"Phantom seems to have a pretty relaxed dress code."

Juhan-ssi, who had just set the stack of permanent exhibition pamphlets on the windowsill shelf and turned back, chuckled as though he'd been expecting the question.

"Our gallery?"

I nodded, and he continued.

"Our gallery has a fairly unique business philosophy. Since our main clients come from the entertainment and fashion industries, the Director's policy is that staff should have a certain flair to appeal to them. So distinctive looks are actually encouraged."

"If that weren't the case, Kwon Juhan probably would have failed his interview."

Yuni-ssi remarked as she passed by the table where we were working, having just returned from checking on the catering company's progress.

"And who was it that dragged someone to an interview they didn't want to attend?"

Juhan-ssi turned around bristling, but couldn't draw any reaction from Yuni-ssi. Her phone, which had been ringing almost incessantly since I'd arrived that morning, started ringing again.

Juhan-ssi quickly turned back and resumed putting pamphlets into plastic sleeves. He gave up fast.

"For us, it's genuinely great. We don't have to split ourselves into a work persona and an after-work persona, and the clothing expense allowance comes through reliably."

I understood that there were no dress restrictions because the main clients came from fashion and entertainment — but how those circles had come to make up a gallery's primary clientele in the first place remained a mystery to me.

It wasn't the kind of question that would keep me up at night without an answer, so I let it go with a nod.

"You know there are lots of Alphas and Omegas in the entertainment industry, right? You're in for quite the visual today."

Of the celebrities popular these days, I could only match a name to a face for maybe one or two people. But if I picked up a few names, I could at least bring them up with Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung later — decent enough material for our beer-time conversations.

Juhan-ssi had told me to expect celebrities and Alphas and Omegas at the party. Still, I doubted anyone today would be more Alpha than that man from yesterday — Phantom's Director.

Even if he weren't an Alpha at all, even if he were just a Beta — to someone like me, an ordinary person — he was the very image of a Golden Alpha.

It wasn't only the exotic features, that face where something faintly Eastern lingered beneath a stronger Western impression. I hadn't confirmed whether he was mixed-race, but those features and that eye color made purely East Asian ancestry seem biologically impossible.

The aura he carried wasn't something you could reason your way into — it was felt. I might have been able to paint it, but I couldn't have put it into words.

It wasn't the sensation of someone being greater or more impressive. It wasn't even the feeling of encountering someone of a different race. Seeing an unrealistically beautiful foreigner in person would still produce the thought: same species, just different.

With him, the feeling was different. What exactly is this standing in front of me? That was the kind of quiet, mild shock he produced.

If those slightly parted, sensuous lips moved to speak, it felt as though some beautiful, unfamiliar language would come out — something that sounded like music.

His personality didn't seem particularly agreeable. But I couldn't deny the natural curiosity that came with encountering something genuinely new, or the way my gaze kept being drawn back to him regardless.

Whether the level of presence he carried was simply common among Alphas, or something rarer still — today’s party would probably answer that, as Juhan-ssi had said.

After dropping off the bagged pamphlets at the temporary desk in the second-floor exhibition hall, I returned to the office to find the Teacher had arrived and was talking with Yuni-ssi. I approached with a smile, happy to see her, and she smiled back and lightly brushed my bangs aside.

"Where's the Director?"

The Teacher asked Yuni-ssi.

"He's having lunch with Inwu ssaem¹ and coming straight here afterward."

"Then we're practically ready. Ha... I honestly wasn't sure this insane schedule was actually achievable, but here we are. It even feels more relaxed than usual! Just adding one more person makes such a difference, doesn't it?"

The Teacher draped an arm over my shoulder and looked to Yuni-ssi and Juhan-ssi for agreement that I'd been helpful in keeping things on track. Both of them responded as if they'd been waiting for exactly that question, strongly expressing how desperately the gallery needed more staff.

With only the upstairs catering setup left to finish, the 3:00 opening would be fine. We gathered around the table, each with a cup of coffee the Teacher had brought, to enjoy one last moment of ease before things got underway.

"Yuni and Juhan will take turns with clients. There are times when clients have questions about the artwork and both the Director and I are unavailable. When it gets busy, there might even be moments where both Yuni and Juhan have to leave the desk unattended. Yeehyeonie², all you need to do is hand out pamphlets at the desk."

I wasn't shy — just unused to this kind of thing — so I figured I could manage that much somehow.

"Smiling and being warm... will it be all right if I can't quite manage that?"

"It's fine, it's fine. Yeehyeonie, your expressionless face is actually charming — clients will probably like it even more. Don't worry about that..."

The Teacher's encouraging words — that my deadpan expression was charming, a claim I found hard to agree with — gradually trailed off and then stopped entirely. The smile slowly drained from her face until, in the end, it contorted into a full grimace, as though she'd just swallowed something bitter.

"I must be losing my mind... Of course. I knew things were going too smoothly this time."

The three of us fixed our gaze on the Teacher as she muttered, rubbing both palms across her face.

"I think I left the book the Monsieur A Editor-in-Chief just published in the bathroom! I was holding onto it until this morning so I'd at least look like I'd read it. What is wrong with me, seriously?!"

No sooner had she finished blaming herself than Yuni-ssi was already on her feet.

"I'll take a cab and go get it. Thirty minutes round trip, at most."

"We can't do without it, Yuni-ya. No matter how well I say I've read it, without the physical copy it won't work... That man will sulk over something like this for months."

By the time the Teacher said that — in a near-panicked voice that was almost a shout — Yuni-ssi had already retrieved her wallet from her desk at the back of the office.

After a brief moment's hesitation, I stood up and gently caught Yuni-ssi's arm.

"I'll go."

I glanced at Yuni-ssi, who paused, then checked the wall clock hanging by the window pillar. It was nearly 3:00.

"Without you here, Yuni-ssi, things grind to a halt. Nothing catastrophic will happen just because I step out for a bit. I'll go."

"...Then I'll leave it to you."

This was a different side of her from yesterday, when she'd given work instructions before we'd even properly introduced ourselves. She seemed reluctant to ask me — someone who was only here temporarily — to handle an unplanned task. I gave her the biggest smile I could, sensing her discomfort. I was beginning to understand what Juhan-ssi meant when he described the two of us as the shy type.

I got the book details sent to my phone and hurried out of the office. Behind me I could hear Yuni-ssi's light scolding and the Teacher's nearly tearful voice asking for forgiveness.

Just as Yuni-ssi had said, there was a large bookstore about a ten-minute taxi ride away. I'd visited it a few times in middle school with friends, using buying study guides as the excuse. The interior had changed considerably since then — probably a major renovation — but I didn't have time to marvel at the transformation.

Finding the book wasn't difficult, but hailing a taxi for the return trip took some time — it was a Sunday afternoon in the city center. Only after receiving a message from Yuni-ssi saying the author hadn't arrived yet and there was still plenty of time could I finally exhale and lean back in my seat.

The road back to the gallery was more congested than the trip there. The narrow streets and alleys of the area were bustling with people out for a Sunday, packed with stylish cafés and restaurants on every side.

As I took the book out of the paper bag and quickly flipped through it, I kept stealing anxious glances out the window to check how far along we were.

When we were about ten meters from our destination, a large car with a solid, imposing silhouette caught my eye as it entered the parking area in front of Phantom. It wasn't a vehicle you saw every day. And yet despite its overwhelming size and somewhat authoritative, straight-lined design, it didn't look clumsy in the slightest. There was an elegance to it. Even without any knowledge of cars, anyone could tell it was an extremely high-end vehicle.

Imported sedans on the road were common enough, but this one had something different about it — perhaps its frame, larger than most SUVs, or its exterior that set it apart from regular sedans, making it resemble an official escort vehicle. It had a presence that simply overwhelmed.

It might have been a hasty assumption, but I thought I knew who the owner was.

There was still a short distance to Phantom, but I stopped the taxi in front of a quaint hanok-style café.

The person stepping out of the driver's seat, having parked in the small lot in front of the main gate, was — as expected — Phantom's Director.

Dressed in a shirt with wide, open lapels that revealed the base of his long, solid neck, and a suit of thin, light material, his hair fell in soft, natural waves as he stepped out of the car.

The man wore a sky-blue suit tinged with cobalt — a shade or two darker than his own eye color, though he was wearing sunglasses now — and looked more flamboyant than yesterday, yet somehow more relaxed too. His attire reminded me of Italian men in a film I'd once seen, heading out to the countryside for a weekend picnic. A suit — but not stiff. Comfortable — but not casual.

"The weather is far too nice. To think I have to spend the whole day cooped up in a windowless gallery, plastering on a social smile... You really owe me an expensive meal."

"Like you're doing this just for me? Stop complaining."

Another man climbed out of the passenger seat, grumbling at him, and he responded firmly. The passenger was also tall and well-built, wearing dark sunglasses — but he was clearly Korean.

I hesitated at the entrance, wondering whether to quietly slip in first and pretend I hadn't seen them, or wait for the two of them to enter ahead of me. While I was weighing it, their gazes turned toward me. I gave a brief bow in greeting.

"Haven't seen you around before — who are you? A new lover?"

The passenger greeted me with unabashed curiosity. The Director frowned immediately.

"You'd need to have had a lover in the first place for there to be a new one."

"What, aren't you Liu Weikun — the one who becomes a sweet lover to whoever you're with, at least while you're in bed together?"

He let out a soft scoff — but it had the sound of someone who'd just heard something genuinely amusing.

"Someone's been going around saying that? That I was sweet."

After handing the keys to the valet he'd apparently hired just for the day, he removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

"Then that bastard must not have actually slept with me."

A faint smile lingered at the corners of his lips — the kind that meant he knew he'd won that round, and was quietly pleased about it.

There were about ten steps between us. I considered going in first and leaving the two of them to their exchange, but he was, after all, the owner of the place I'd come to work at.

"So in any case — you're saying he wasn't your lover?"

The passenger walked around the front bumper to stand beside the Director, lightly massaging his shoulder. He took off his own sunglasses, rested the arm between his lips, and looked at me — asking for confirmation once more.

This man was considerably good-looking too, with a well-proportioned build — but he didn't have that particular quality, that faint sense of being not quite of this world. At least he felt like the same species as me. Just someone who'd been dealt a better hand in the looks department.

"Shouldn't you have figured out my type by now?"

The Director spoke as if the conversation were a waste of time, adding with a faint sigh, both hands shoved into his trouser pockets,

"He's a part-timer."

Finally, an answer to what the passenger had been curious about from the start. A part-timer.

It was a May afternoon, sunlight spilling everywhere — bright enough to warrant sunglasses. They were standing with the sun behind them, so I had to squint looking toward them.

"Is that right?"

The passenger immediately broke into a bright smile and stepped toward me, extending his hand.

"Hello. Sorry about that conversation, right in front of you. I hadn't heard Phantom was taking on part-timers — maybe I should apply too."

"Hello. I'm just helping out temporarily for today."

As we exchanged an awkward handshake, the Director started walking toward the main entrance. Placing a light hand on my back as if guiding me along, the passenger glanced at the paper bag I was holding.

"Ah, that's a shame. What's in there? Is it heavy? I'll carry it."

"It's just a book."

I hadn't said anything remotely amusing, but the man threw his head back and laughed anyway.

We entered the gallery just a few steps behind the Director, and the opening had already begun. Soft music drifted through both floors, and something lively and charged was already building upstairs.

With a promise to see me later, the passenger hurried after the Director and disappeared up the ivory-colored staircase.

The sight of the two men — both well-built and dressed in high-quality suits — ascending the marble stairs was visually striking. But one felt too complex, and the other too simple. Not in terms of who they truly were, but in the immediate impression they projected.

And both of them lived in worlds that had nothing to do with mine.

After leaving the book in the office, I hurried up to the second floor, where more than half of the fifty or so VIP guests who'd confirmed attendance had already arrived. Just as I'd been told, they were, at a glance, a decidedly glamorous crowd.

A rather boisterous round of greetings was taking place centered around the Director and the passenger who'd just arrived. I could also see the Teacher and Yuni-ssi, each attending to small clusters of people.

Juhan-ssi was manning the temporary desk.

"How did it go?"

"I left it in Manager Han's bag in the office."

Juhan-ssi widened his eyes for a moment and looked at me. Then he nudged me with his elbow and smiled.

"More meticulous than you look."

I paused for a moment, unsure whether to take it as a compliment, and settled for an ambiguous smile.

The main event hadn't officially begun yet. People seemed more preoccupied with spotting familiar faces and exchanging greetings than with appreciating the artwork. The atmosphere around the Director was the most vibrant.

"We invited about fifty VIPs, but each of them can bring two or three guests — potential new clients. It's not even 3:30 and we already have over thirty attendees. Today's off to a good start."

That was Juhan-ssi's assessment after glancing at the attendance list.

In the hall just before the staircase, a long buffet table had been set up overlooking the first-floor lobby from behind a railing. Simple finger foods and desserts were arranged across floor-length tablecloths, floral arrangements tucked between the platters. Catering staff in uniform moved among the colorfully dressed guests, serving food and refilling champagne flutes.

The party had a relaxed rather than stiff atmosphere, and even at the temporary desk where Juhan-ssi and I were stationed, drinks and a few light snacks had been set out for us.

I picked up a water bottle with an unfamiliar label to quench my thirst first.

"The people here right now account for over seventy percent of our gallery's revenue. But they're not the type who come because they have a genuine eye for art or because taking in a painting over a cup of tea is a highlight of their busy days."

Chewing on a bite-sized sandwich, Juhan-ssi leaned a little closer to me.

"See that person wearing the wide-brimmed hat? The one who just arrived."

Following Juhan-ssi's gaze, I easily spotted a man ascending the second-floor stairs, accompanied by two people who looked like assistants.

"That's the Editor-in-Chief who published the book Yeehyeon-ssi just bought."

The man, who appeared to be in his mid-to-late forties, was on the shorter side, with a slightly fleshy, pale face and expressive features. He seemed fairly close to the Director — the two greeted each other with French-style cheek kisses.

"Kun, congratulations on the opening. Why have you been so busy? I can never catch a glimpse of you."

As the Director guided the slightly disappointed man into the inner exhibition space, he smiled. Undeniably handsome, so of course the smile was attractive — but it had a mechanical quality to it, like something pressed from a mold. Not that there was anything to criticize. This was simply his work.

"It's a fashion magazine called Monsieur A — a subsidiary of a major corporation and part of a powerful company that publishes over ten different magazines. And that man isn't just an ordinary editor-in-chief. He's related to that group by marriage — distant, like a second cousin's connection, but not someone you can afford to ignore."

Juhan-ssi swallowed the sandwich in his mouth, washing it down with champagne from his tall, slender glass.

Thanks to the guests busy exchanging greetings and being introduced to new people, the temporary desk was entirely deserted. Not a single person came to pick up a pamphlet.

"We focus more on fashion, lifestyle, and luxury magazines than art publications. Honestly, the gallery market in Korea is already saturated. You don't need a license — anyone with money can open one — so the sheer number of galleries, big and small, is enormous. And plenty of them fold within a few years. On the surface it looks sophisticated, hanging paintings and talking about an artist's distinctive style or the message behind the work — but the competition is brutal. Walk in thinking you'll get a glamorous business card out of it because you have some money, and you'll get pushed out fast by people who are actually fighting for their lives. And you can never underestimate the established galleries. The market is small — barely room to squeeze in."

Finishing his explanation, Juhan-ssi started coughing and thumped his chest, so I offered him my share of the champagne. He nodded gratefully, downed the glass in one go, and reached for a cookie.

Today his lip piercing and ear piercing were connected by a chain. It looked like it would be inconvenient for drinking and eating, but Juhan-ssi himself looked perfectly comfortable — as if he'd long since accepted it as part of his body.

"So our Director decided to go after people who'd never really spent money on art before."

After hearing that much, I felt like I was beginning to understand why the gallery's primary clientele consisted of people from the fashion and entertainment industries.

"This market is almost entirely built on social connections. It's not like going to whichever gallery has a painting you happen to like and buying it on the spot. Pulling clients away from galleries they already have existing relationships with is incredibly difficult — so the strategy was to target people who have money but haven't really spent any of it on art."

Juhan-ssi made a circle with his thumb and index finger — the universal gesture for money.

"The result, as you can see, is a huge success. We even relocated to a building like this in Samcheong-dong."

As if it were nothing — or perhaps with a hint of quiet pride — Juhan-ssi shrugged and popped the remaining crumbs of cookie into his mouth.

To be honest, I had vaguely assumed Phantom might be one of those galleries started with exactly the mentality Juhan-ssi had described: I have money, I might as well get a fancy gallery-owner business card.

Not for any particular reason, but the Director of Phantom gave off the impression of someone born into enough money that striving for something had never been necessary. And in the way he moved through the room with clients, there was no trace of the desperate servility that real financial pressure leaves on a person.

A polite, friendly service smile lingered on his face at all times — but that was all it was.

If anything, it was the people around him who were working harder to please, and those with looser ties to him were visibly watching for any opening to get closer. Even I could read that much clearly.

Setting aside the abrasive attitude he'd shown me from yesterday until now, I quietly offered an internal apology for the image I'd formed based solely on his outward appearance: the sheltered rich kid who had everything handed to him.

I didn't think there was anything inherently wrong with starting something on the foundation of family resources — but I also believed that achievements built entirely through one's own effort were a different kind of thing.

Whether he had built Phantom up entirely from nothing or had received some support from his family, I couldn't say. But at the very least, it didn't look like a sandcastle erected on sheer capital and inherited connections alone.

The first person to approach the desk since I'd started my shift took a pamphlet — a woman wearing oversized sunglasses that covered half her face. Looking more closely, it wasn't that the sunglasses were large; her face was simply that small. I didn't recognize her, but she might have been an actress or singer.

After she took her pamphlet and disappeared into the inner exhibition space, calling out someone's name with obvious delight at running into them, Juhan-ssi told me her name and mentioned she was a currently popular actress. Again, it was a name I'd never heard before.

"Anyway, because of the Director's management style, he's considered a complete heretic or troublemaker in the art world — basically treated like Satan. They say a blue-eyed Golden Alpha charmed people with his pheromones and sold paintings, dragging the dignity of art down into the mud. One critic even spewed nonsense calling him a male prostitute who sells art with his body."

Juhan-ssi, resuming the earlier thread of conversation, raised his fist into the air as though he might grab the critic who'd said such things by the collar. He still looked indignant just thinking about it.

Meanwhile, the very subject of this story stood surrounded by many people, smiling like a painting.

This was a gallery that exhibited and sold artwork, yet most of the people here seemed far more interested in the man himself than in anything hanging on the walls.

A middle-aged woman in a tweed two-piece subtly displayed her closeness by lightly hooking her arm through his, and genuine envy mixed with jealousy flickered in the eyes of those watching. Their emotions were so openly worn that it vaguely reminded me of elementary school — those days when children tried so hard just to catch the teacher's eye one more time.

The Director of Phantom, as if entirely unaware of the complex web of desires swirling around him, skillfully held the atmosphere together — drawing out warmth with an agreeable, charming ease.

Or perhaps he was fully aware of the intensity and direction of those desires, and was in fact orchestrating the whole entanglement himself.

To belatedly point out the description of him as "the blue-eyed Golden Alpha who bewitches people with his pheromones to sell paintings" — his eyes were not a simple blue. They were closer to pale blue, as though sun-bleached, or as though the pigment had faded from crying too much.

It had the clear, jewel-like quality of a deep blue — but not the kind that feels lifeless. Instead it was more delicate, more alive, like the foam riding the crest of a wave just as it breaks. A color that looked like it could shatter and disappear.

It was a shade that sat in sharp contrast to the rest of his impression, which was otherwise overwhelmingly strong and commanding.

"But the Director doesn't release his pheromones. I don't know what he's like in private, but in public? Never. His control is maxed out to the point where even Golden Omegas can barely detect him. Oh, do you know about Golden Alphas — that kind of thing?"

"Not very much."

"Not interested?"

Among the vast Beta population, there weren't many who had no interest in Alphas or Omegas. Sometimes it was curiosity about those with a secondary gender. Sometimes it was admiration for people who were generally held to possess remarkable looks and exceptional talents. And sometimes it was simple, light interest in something unusual.

Even though I thought he had — in blunt terms — a somewhat unpleasant personality, I'd been curious whether he might be a Golden Alpha given that distinctive presence, so I answered that I wasn't entirely uninterested.

Yes. He was a Golden Alpha, as it turned out. The result was disappointingly predictable. His appearance was large, strong, and beautiful enough that he could serve as a mascot for Golden Alphas.

But the fact that he released no pheromones at all — that was something I'd had no prior knowledge of.

"Alphas and Omegas ultimately come down to reproductive biology — not really the kind of thing to get into here. Anyway, the Director isn't at a level where pheromones leak out involuntarily or where he's helpless against other people's. There are plenty of Betas who discriminate against Alphas and Omegas — calling them beasts who've surrendered their humanity to instinct — but a Golden Alpha can regulate even their own ruts through pheromone control, so there's no real basis for that criticism to begin with. And yet they still criticize. Willfully blind, every one of them. But listening to them go on about pheromones and dignity... honestly, I wonder who exactly is lecturing whom."

The only Alpha I knew was Morae, but she wasn't the type to discuss her identity in any detail. And I hadn't had enough interest in Alphas and Omegas to go looking for information on my own.

The things Juhan-ssi was saying — about Golden Alphas, about Phantom's Director — were probably already well-known in this industry. Whatever he chose to share was clearly just casual conversation at the level a temporary part-timer with no real stake in any of it might overhear. Yet more than half of it was information I simply hadn't known.

"It's impressive, isn't it? Being a Golden Alpha isn't just something you're born as — apparently, more than fifty percent of it is achieved through training. That means he's been consistently working to manage his instincts since puberty and built himself up to this level. He smiles as though everything comes naturally... but the tenacity behind that is anything but ordinary."

Juhan-ssi took a sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the Director over the rim of his tilted glass.

Following Juhan-ssi's line of sight, the man was still at the center of the group, holding the room as naturally as before.

As host and owner, his smile was fair to everyone — but it carried a different temperature from an ordinary smile, warm enough to be misread as something more by those without immunity to it.

In sharp contrast to the hostility he'd shown me, I tried to imagine this man — who responded to every guest with equal, sunlit kindness — privately driving himself through solitary inner training where no one could see. But the image wouldn't form.

Right beside me, I heard Juhan-ssi crunch through another cookie.

"But I like that kind of thing. Becoming ruthlessly determined to get what you want. Looking relaxed on the surface, but underneath — gritting your teeth and kicking furiously to get what you crave."

Crunch, crunch. Juhan-ssi chewed his cookie with satisfaction and grinned.

Was it really like that?

Was there really a desperate struggle beneath the surface — teeth clenched, legs churning?

It was impossible to picture, looking at him now — so completely at ease, as though everything he had was simply his by birthright.

Even now — standing slightly askew with one leg crossed, champagne glass in hand, smiling — he looked, to put it mildly, like a natural-born ruler.

I tried to imagine him making fierce, hidden efforts beneath the surface, but what surfaced instead was an image of him pedaling one of those swan-shaped paddleboats at an amusement park. Even that scene didn't suit him — but strangely, it was easier to picture.

My meandering imagination was briefly interrupted by Yuni-ssi, who arrived at the desk nearly tripping over her high-heeled platform sandals.

"Here. Two are sold out."

She dropped a small notebook onto the desk with an utterly exhausted expression. Juhan-ssi brightened and snatched it up.

"Already? You really are something. Want to switch?"

"Yeah. My mouth is about to cramp."

"Okay."

Full of enthusiasm like a reserve player finally called off the bench, Juhan-ssi stepped out to the exhibition floor in Yuni-ssi's place.

It seemed Yuni-ssi had managed to sell two pieces after pushing herself through client after client until her facial muscles were on the verge of cramping. Since I'd worked with her on the captions the day before, I had a rough idea of the price range for the works on display here. Selling two such high-priced pieces in under an hour — Juhan-ssi was right, she was genuinely capable.

"Should I get you something to drink?"

As if she didn't even have the energy to reply, Yuni-ssi nodded while sitting in the chair behind the desk, tapping her leg.

"There's juice too — lots of kinds."

"Alcohol. Get me alcohol."

"Is champagne alright?"

"Not in a flute. Fill a regular glass to the brim."

Following her instructions, I poured champagne into the largest glass available and returned to the desk. About fifteen or sixteen steps away, the Teacher — who was attending to a client — raised her voice slightly in our direction. The entire exhibition hall was buzzing, so the tone didn't especially stand out.

"Yuni-ssi, could you grab the Editor-in-Chief's book from my bag in the office?"

I stopped Yuni-ssi just as she was about to rise almost reflexively, and handed her the glass instead.

"I'll get it. I know exactly where it is."

I hurried downstairs and retrieved the book from where I'd left it. On the way back after handing it to the Teacher, I felt like a student submitting copied homework to a teacher. It wasn't as though I'd done anything seriously wrong, but I was inexplicably nervous — and found it hard to even turn my head in that direction.

"Manager Han, you even underlined it while reading? You really are something. That difference shows. Plenty of people buy books just to be seen with them and get a signature, but I know better — most of them never actually read the contents. But Manager Han doesn't treat people like that. There's real sincerity here. No wonder I can't help opening my wallet whenever I come to Phantom!"

Fortunately, he hadn't noticed the copied homework. He'd even praised it.

Yuni-ssi, who had drained half her champagne as if it were grape juice, looked up at me with wide eyes — just as Juhan-ssi had a moment ago.

"You actually went and underlined it in the meantime?"

When I nodded at her whispered question, a cool smile returned to her face.

Whether he'd been considering a purchase all along or it was an impulsive decision fueled by the heightened mood, the Editor-in-Chief of that powerful magazine showed active interest in buying — asking for a recommendation for a painting to hang in his recently promoted daughter's office.

"It's nothing much, but it's funny how delighted someone can get over something so small, isn't it? But that's how it is here. Even when we're selling paintings, sometimes it really just feels like we're handling people's feelings. Put nicely, it's a profession where salesmanship matters. To put it more bluntly, it's about flattery. Sometimes that makes me wonder a little."

Yuni-ssi gave a wry smile as she watched the Editor-in-Chief move to another section with the Teacher to look at the recommended work.

Before I could ask her more about that smile, she was called back to the exhibition floor. The social portion of the event was over, and it was time to promote the real stars of the day — the paintings.

Left alone at the desk, I busied my idle hands with clearing away the empty glasses and needlessly reorganizing the remaining pamphlets, when suddenly a shadow fell across the desk.

"Could I get a pamphlet?"

Looking up, I found the passenger smiling at me.

The smile itself was bright, but something about it put me faintly on guard — the easy, unhurried swagger of someone accustomed to being liked.

I handed him a pamphlet, but he didn't seem particularly interested in it.

"I recently moved to the thirty-second floor. I used to live in a detached house with a garden — moving to a high-rise makes me feel trapped. It's bleak. Could you recommend a painting? The name is..."

His gaze drifted toward my chest, as if searching for a name tag.

"Seo Yeehyeon."

He studied me for a moment, then gave a slow shake of his head.

"Even your name is my type."

It came out like a muttered complaint — as though he found it inconvenient.

Since he hadn't made any direct proposition, I couldn't find a reason to react. He didn't seem to expect one, either.

"I'd like Yeehyeon-ssi to recommend one piece. What do you think would be good? Something relaxing."

"I'm just a part-timer helping out for today..."

"That's fine. Just recommend one. I'll only use it as a reference."

The Director and Yuni-ssi were already occupied with clients. The Teacher and Juhan-ssi were nowhere to be seen — probably attending to guests in other sections. Though I was reluctant, since he'd asked knowing I was only a temporary helper, I didn't think any trouble would arise from complying.

"Where are you planning to hang it?"

"Hmm... if it’s something Yeehyeon-ssi recommends... then maybe the bedroom?"

What a textbook playboy line. I looked at his easy, flirtatious expression — straight out of a TV drama — and stepped out from behind the desk.

Approximately fifty works were displayed throughout the exhibition hall.

This exhibition was a group show featuring seven or eight artists affiliated with the gallery; some had as few as two pieces displayed, others ten or more. Since I'd helped with preparations through the night before, the images and general locations of the paintings were already organized in my mind.

Without hesitation, I walked forward and stopped in front of a square canvas measuring fifty-three centimeters on each side.

It had the grotesque, fractured interpretation of Cubism combined with a cheerful, almost cartoon-like exuberance. At the same time, the palette was dark and heavy.

"This one? This painting?"

The man asked again, as though he couldn't understand why I'd chosen it. I nodded twice, firmly.

He glanced back and forth between the painting and me a few times, then turned and scanned the room as if searching for someone, and called out to the Director, who was conversing with three or four people in front of a large Pop Art-style work.

"Kun, come over here a moment."

The Director excused himself from the group and walked over.

I wasn't particularly short, but I wasn't tall either. At my height, the passenger's lips were roughly level with my nose, and the Director's lips were roughly level with the passenger's nose. He had to be easily over 190 centimeters.

He approached wearing that same expression of mild annoyance — as if everything were a bother. In any case, a warm smile like the one he kept for everyone else would have been an unnecessary accessory in front of both the passenger and me.

Standing at a slight angle with one hand in his trouser pocket, he urged the passenger to get to the point.

"I asked him to recommend a painting for the bedroom, and he recommended my work. What do you make of that?"

The Director's gaze shifted to me. In the two days of knowing each other, it was the longest he'd looked at me. And it was the first gaze that was neither indifferent nor hostile.

It wasn't the instinctive sizing-up of something unfamiliar that had strayed too close — it was a gaze that simply looked at me, directly, as an individual.

As his eyes moved away from me — having examined me carefully, as if receiving information through my gaze — only then did it register: the painting I'd recommended was actually the passenger's own work.

"You think this painting suits me?"

"I... didn't know you were the artist."

"You wouldn't have known. I'm not saying that as a criticism — I'm just curious why you recommended this specific painting to me."

The passenger seemed thoroughly delighted by the situation.

"Will you be honest with me? Please."

Was he so starved for an honest reaction that he even added "please"? He clasped his hands together in a prayer-like gesture, looking at my lips. Behind him, I took another look at the painting.

I had only ever lost myself in art and painted for myself alone — I had never been curious what others thought of my work. But if I recalled the feeling that single award and its accompanying critique had given me, I could understand the mood of the man before me.

"It seems to show everything honestly... but there's something it can't quite show."

"Something like what?"

"It feels similar."

"Me and this painting?"

"Yes."

"I'm dishonest? Me and this painting?"

As he leaned his face closer, peppering me with questions, I found myself stepping back involuntarily.

"It's not quite that... It's more like — wanting to be honest, but not being able to be. Something like that. And in the sense that it exposes that state without reservation, you could also call that a kind of honesty..."

At my attempt to elaborate, the playful look vanished from the passenger's face. The Director, by contrast, let out an audible laugh. Brief — but unmistakably a laugh.

"I'm sorry. I don't express myself well... And it's just a personal impression, so please don't take it too seriously."

The passenger, who had seemed momentarily thrown off, immediately leaned forward again in the next instant, studying my face with renewed curiosity. His characteristic lightness had already returned to his expression.

"What are you doing after work today? I heard you finish at six."

I struggled to follow the sudden shift in conversation.

"I have to clean up."

At my answer, the man finally dropped the broad, performative grin and, for the first time, wore a genuinely disappointed expression. Then he nudged the Director's arm, looking for backup.

"That's what you'd call a solid wall, right?"

The Director looked at me with a serious expression, as if searching my face for the answer. I didn't look away.

What I was facing was an extraordinarily beautiful color. For a moment I forgot it belonged to a human eye, and became absorbed simply in the living beauty of that color — slowly taking in the left eye first, then the right, one by one.

In the next instant, his focus disengaged from my gaze without hesitation.

"Wall or not — he's ten years younger than you. You sure you want to do this?"

With a click of his tongue, the Director said that, then turned his back and returned to his original spot.

As the passenger went on about knowing the best mandu-guk place in Seoul and wanting to make time for it sometime soon, I found myself wondering: had I ever mentioned my age to him?

TRANSLATOR'S NOTES

1. 1 Inwu ssaem (인우 쌤) — Ssaem (쌤) is a casual, affectionate contraction of seonsaengnim (선생님), used here to show warmth and familiarity toward Inwu as a teacher and mentor. ↩ Back to text
2. 2 Yeehyeonie (이현이) — An affectionate nickname formed by attaching the endearing suffix -i directly to the full given name, often used by someone close to the person. Here, Yeehyeon's former teacher uses it with the familiarity and fondness of someone who has known him since childhood. ↩ Back to text